36 Ethan
December 2018
When I got back into the city, I avoided replying to Sloane’s texts. I needed to clear my head, process the weekend’s chaos. Now, two days deep into radio silence, I’m still scrambling for the right play. Even though she won’t admit it, I know she’s upset with me for ditching her on Thanksgiving. So I can only imagine how she feels now.
Why the hell can’t I get it right? With her, with anything? I’m stuck in my own head, which is nothing new, I guess.
Laundry day—the epitome of New York. Bag slung over my shoulder, I step into the elevator and finally crack, shooting Sloane a text. Just an I’m sorry, I just needed space, straight up, no chaser, knowing that she’s gonna corner me for a full explanation later anyway.
I walk into her apartment and notice that there’s a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. Part of me was expecting that—she always drinks when she’s nervous. Usually, I don’t mind it, but for some reason, today it really bothers me. It makes me wonder if alcohol is a coping mechanism for her. I can’t build a life with someone who turns to alcohol when things get tough. Alcohol is the sole reason my life ended up the way that it did, and I really don’t want to sign up for a rerun.
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.” She addresses me.
I choose to defend myself. “I’m not. I just needed to be alone.”
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me.”
“I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
I’m cornered, no solid game plan, and I can tell she sees right through me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I can see the heartbreak in her eyes. I’ve got to tread lighter—she’s one step away from a breakdown, and I’m the one with the sledgehammer.
Trying to backpedal, I fumble. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” I drop onto the seat beside her, still unsure of how to fix this. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is.” For once, she’s firm in her delivery.
“I’ll try,” slips out, and I regret those two words as soon as they leave my mouth.
I know I’ll never be the person she wants or deserves. I need to just let her go and stop trying to be someone I’m not, for both of our sakes.
***
I spend the next few days thinking through everything. Every moment in my childhood, every moment before Sloane, and every moment with Sloane. I try to remember the last time I was truly happy, and it hurts to know that I can’t pinpoint it. Can’t most people? My entire life has been a series of unfortunate events. One after another. How shitty is that? What’s even shittier though is having to explain these things to people—people like Sloane.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her, I just can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t want to see that look of pity in her eyes. I don’t want anyone to pity me, but especially not her. I’m supposed to be the one she leans on, not the other way around. I’ll never depend on someone in the way she wants me to. I’ll never depend on someone other than myself because, sooner or later, people let me down. They always have and they always will.
I stand in line waiting to pay for our dinner and can’t shake the uneasy feeling inside of me. I know I need to do this.
“Order for Ethan?”
The host hands me a plastic bag with two to-go boxes inside in exchange for my credit card.
The restaurant is six blocks away from our apartment building, which gives me time to run through how I want this to go down. I hate that I’m going to hurt her, which is why I’ve put this off for so long. I prepare the conversation in my head and go over it what feels like a hundred times.
The elevator doors open, and a lump in my throat starts to form. I don’t want to do this, I really don’t, but at the same time I know I have no choice. Nothing between us will change if I can’t get my shit together first. I just hope she understands that.
I let myself into Sloane’s apartment and greet her with a hug.
Sloane unpacks the plastic bag and hands me the to-go container. I squirt some ketchup on my fries before taking a bite out of my wrap. I chew extra slowly so I can delay the inevitable conversation for as long as possible.
“What should we watch? We need a new show, but I haven’t heard of anything good coming out on Netflix lately. Have you?”
I cut her off before she can finish her sentence. “I can’t do this anymore, Sloane. I think this needs to end.”
I watch the color drain from her face as she drops the wineglass she was just about to take a sip from. She immediately bends down to clean it up, as if it’s instinct, and that’s when I notice the blood.
This is going so much worse than I expected.
The hospital visit is short, but it feels so long. Probably because I’m still avoiding the conversation that we inevitably still need to have.
The car ride home is painfully silent, and I try to put myself in her shoes. I wonder what she’s thinking and how she’s feeling. Does she hate me? Is it selfish to wonder that? The driver pulls up to our building, and I watch as Sloane pauses for a second before opening the car door. Within seconds, we’re face-to-face with each other in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Should I come to yours so we can finish talking?” I ask hesitantly.
“No, I don’t think we need to talk more.”
I don’t bother arguing with her because I know she’s right. She deserves someone better than me. Someone who can give her everything I’ll never be capable of.
Feeling deflated, I watch as she turns and walks into the lobby. I expect her to look back, but she never does. I don’t know if I ever pictured things with Sloane actually ending, but this feels final. I hate that I’m hurting her, but even more so, I hate that I can’t be honest with her. I hope she knows that there wasn’t anything she could’ve done differently.
The cold air feels comforting as I wait a few minutes, until I think she’s gotten inside of her apartment, to make my way upstairs. My roommates are sitting on the couch smoking weed and watching college basketball, so I join them.
“Want a hit?” Noah holds out the bong.
I grab it from him without replying and rip it one, two, three times.
“Woah, dude, bad day?” Alex asks.
“You could say that,” I reply.
None of us speak for the rest of the night. Instead, we get high, avoid our problems, and watch sports. Three of the things that I do best.
***
The next morning, I roll over in bed and reach for my phone to scroll the feed. It’s not until I see a post that I want to send to Sloane that I remember everything that unfolded last night. I miss her more than I thought I would. I know because I feel a little more empty than usual.
What’s wrong with me? Why am I so fucked up? I mean, I know why I’m fucked up—my parents did this to me. Why can’t I let someone love me when it’s all I’ve wanted my entire life? All I’ve wanted was to feel loved, and as soon as someone tries, I push them away.
I really thought if I let Sloane love me, eventually I’d get there too. Instead, this is where we are. Three breakups, two years, and one really broken heart.